


The boy's a monster

by Ischa



Series: Selfish love [3]
Category: Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Blood Drinking, Feeding, Gen, Implied Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-28
Updated: 2012-11-28
Packaged: 2017-11-19 17:37:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/575873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ischa/pseuds/Ischa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Damon is drinking, Stefan is starving. Things happen. </p><p>  <i>“Where are you going?” Stefan asked. He was leaning against the railing of the stairs. Barefoot again. Damon couldn't help noticing it every single time. He would spend the night alone then. </i><br/><i>“Out,” he said, turning away and to the door.</i><br/><i>“Feeling murderous then?” Stefan asked and there was a smile in his voice. Like Damon being ready to rip hearts out was a funny thing. It wasn't. Not long term.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The boy's a monster

**Author's Note:**

> Follows [Communion](http://archiveofourown.org/works/445344). But can be read on its own.  
> Beta: stones_at_moons

**~One~**  
Damon could admit, if only in his own head, without any jealousy, that objectively (as far as one could be objective in these things) speaking, Stefan was and always would be the prettier one. The more handsome one. With his fresh face and sincere eyes and honest smile. After nearly two centuries he still looked like the boy Damon once knew so well. The thing was, Stefan wasn't a boy anymore. In no sense that mattered anyway. 

“What are you doing?”Stefan asked. 

Damon held up his glass, nearly empty again, as an answer. “On my way to get spectacularly drunk.” 

“Special occasion?” Stefan asked, there was a smile playing around his lips. The nice boy smile, the one that made people trust him not to hurt them. Damon learned not to believe that smile. 

“Do I need one?” Weren't they all special occasions in this town? He mused. “I drink to another day of survival in this town.” 

Stefan rolled his eyes and stepped into the living room. Damon grinned: living room. He shook his head. No one was living here. He always liked the word 'parlour'. 

Stefan stole the glass out of his hand and gulped the whisky down in one smooth move. He put the glass on the table and sat down on the carpet. He was barefoot again, Damon noticed. Whenever they were alone here Stefan would be barefoot. Damon remembered Stefan being scolded by their father for running around barefoot when they were kids. He remembered Stefan digging his toes into the warm earth in the garden on hot summer evenings. Pink little toes, so vulnerable. He stared for a few endless seconds and then gave in to the urge to touch them. Ran a finger over the big toe, skipped the next few and rested his finger on the small one. Stefan let him. He slung his arms around his knees and rested his head on them. Looking at Damon. Their faces were nearly at the same height, with Damon lying on the couch, but he was still staring at his finger on Stefan's toe. 

“Do you miss it?” Stefan asked. 

Ah, Damon thought, one of those nights then. Again. It seemed to him that they had variations of this conversation a million times already. 

“No,” he answered, because that is what he always answered. Probably always would answer. 

Stefan wriggled his toes. “You are such a liar.” 

Damon was. When it mattered he lied, he lied when it didn't. He kept secrets so deep and dark that normal people couldn't even imagine them. 

“I wonder, would it help when I was honest?” Do you want me too? 

Stefan sighed and Damon looked up and into his brother's face. The fire from the fireplace painted his skin a golden orange. He felt warm, human, and looked it too. 

This wasn't their childhood home, that one was destroyed a long time ago, but it was still their home and they were the only two people who knew and remembered. 

“Because it seems to me that you never want to hear the truth, you just ask because you know I will lie to you,” Damon added. 

Stefan closed his eyes. “Maybe I'm just tired of our modus operandi,” he said. 

Something ugly and angry surfaced again inside his guts and he got up in one smooth movement, even he was drunk like a fucking sailor. Where there is a will and all that jazz.  
“Tell me when you're sure then,” he bit out and didn't wait for Stefan to answer. 

 

 **~Two~**  
Maybe Damon was tired of their modus operandi, too. He was tired of all the secrets he kept inside and that made him angry. 

On the other hand: He had always been angry at something or someone. Maybe he couldn't live without the anger eating at him. Hollowing him out, so he had to feed it something. Maybe there was no other way to live. Not live, being undead, whatever.

Whenever he got too introspective – too much like Stefan these days – he grabbed the keys and the car, any car, and ran. It was better being introspective somewhere else. Somewhere where he wasn't in any danger to kill someone he maybe liked. Or could learn to like. Not that liking someone didn't make him consider murdering them. Or just plain murder them out of spite, anger, carelessness. See Rick and Elena's brother. Good times. 

“Where are you going?” Stefan asked. He was leaning against the railing of the stairs. Barefoot again. Damon couldn't help noticing it every single time. He would spend the night alone then. 

“Out,” he said, turning away and to the door. 

“Feeling murderous then?” Stefan asked and there was a smile in his voice. Like Damon being ready to rip hearts out was a funny thing. It wasn't. Not long term. 

“Stefan,” it was a warning. 

Stefan had always ignored them. Since they were boys running around in the back garden.  
“Damon,” he answered mockingly. 

Damon was ready to rip his heart out in that moment, but he had never given in into that urge and he wouldn't now. Stefan was all that Damon had left. He wasn't sure if it was a sane thing to hold on to that, but when did they ever have done the sane thing? Damon could count the times on one hand and still have fingers left. 

“What do you want?” he hissed. The keys were breaking skin he was holding them so hard.  
Stefan made a noise. 

And then there was silence. Damon waited. 

“What do you want?” Stefan whispered. It was said so quietly that only a vampire could've heard it. 

“Right now?” He turned around and smiled. “Rip out hearts, bath in blood, feed and fuck and then do it all again until I can think of things that have nothing to do with-” _you_ he bit back, “ripping out hearts.” 

“I know that feeling,” Stefan answered. 

“I doubt it.” 

“I was The Ripper. They didn't call me that because I was cuddling unicorns,” Stefan said. 

Damon smiled and it was out of genuine amusement. “I know. I watched you become The Ripper. I watched you relish in your true nature -”

“That isn't my true nature. That was hunger, that was anger. That was-”

“Pain?” Damon asked softly. 

Stefan closed his eyes. “Loss.” 

Sometimes Stefan's honesty was the worst thing. The most deadly of weapons, and Damon couldn't answer it with his own. 

 

 **~Three~**  
“Sometimes I think I won't come back,” he said, watching the liquid in his glass swirl. He heard Stefan upstairs and still didn't bother with a shower first. It's not like Stefan hadn't seen him that way – and in every state in-between, to be honest. 

“And why are you coming back then?” 

“Because I still like to see your face,” Damon answered. Maybe it was just that simple. Maybe he was really, really, really drunk. Maybe he was tired of it all. 

There was silence from the door where Stefan was standing like he didn't dare to cross a line, imaginary as it was, a line Damon had drawn so long ago. 

“I was always the pretty one,” Stefan said after a while. 

Damon smiled and downed the rest liquid in the glass.  
There were as many things he loved about Stefan as there were he hated. 

“And you will always be. For ever and ever and ever. Amen.” The sarcasm tasted bitter on his tongue this time, but maybe it was the cheap whisky. 

Stefan stepped into the room then. Damon could hear his naked feet on the floor. He wondered why Stefan was alone so often these days. “Did you wait up?” he asked. 

“I always wait up for you,” Stefan answered. He grabbed the nearly empty bottle, took a swig and sat down on the floor close to the chair where Damon was sitting. His naked toes brushed Damon's pants. He smelled like expensive soap, cheap whisky and blood-bags. 

Damon reached out then, ran a finger over the side of Stefan's neck, there was caked blood under his fingernails. He smelled like a slaughter house. Which wasn't very surprising. That was how Damon celebrated their anniversary.”How drunk are you?” 

“Very,” Damon answered lazily and it was the truth. He was very, very, very drunk. The kind where he would hopefully fall asleep as soon as he made it to his bed. 

Stefan smiled, Damon could see it only in profile before Stefan turned to look at him. That smile, Damon knew, was just another handy weapon. He smiled back nevertheless. He was just that stupid.  
Stefan grabbed Damon's hand and sniffed it, his nostrils flared, his pupils widened. “You smell good,” he whispered, “like something I've forgotten,” he added just before he licked Damon's finger and then bit into the fleshy part of his palm. 

“Fuck!” And suddenly Damon was very sober.

Stefan sucked and Damon needed too long to get his head in the game to _pull away_. When he did Stefan made a noise like an animal and followed, leaped and they overbalanced, fell – with the chair – backwards. Damon cursed, his head hurt as hell banging against the hardwood floor. Stefan was sitting on top of him, perched and ready to attack. He could feel splinters under his fingers. “You just broke an armchair that was older than you.” 

“I really don't care. We can buy another one. We replace things all the time, Damon.” 

And wasn't that true? “You didn't feed like a proper vampire again, hmm?” 

Stefan licked his lip. “You taste, I forgot how good you taste.” 

“A vampire,” Damon corrected. 

“You.” 

“You never-”

“I did,” Stefan interrupted. “I did,” he repeated. His breath came in sharp, cut off gasps.  
Something was digging painfully into Damon's back, his head hurt and his brother wanted to drink his blood. If Lovecraft had written it, it couldn't have been stranger. 

“And you want to do it again.” 

Stefan made that sound again. Frustrated, angry and needy. “I remember the taste,” he said.  
And nothing else, Damon thought. Not how or why or even when, but he could remember the taste of Damon's blood. Blood was thicker than water, apparently.  
Damon sighed and held out his wrist. What the hell ever. It was their anniversary. He could afford to be generous now and then. 

“It's like,” Stefan whispered into Damon's chest after: his lips were bloody and his skin rosy, his pulse calm. “All the times I was ripping people apart I was looking for something to feed the craving.”  
Damon ran a hand through his brother's hair. He felt tired and empty. His veins screamed. He didn't care. “Did you know? Did you know and let me go mad?” he whispered. 

“No,” Damon hadn't known, but he couldn't say for sure that if he'd known he wouldn't have left anyway. Maybe it was Stefan's gift to him that he didn't ask.


End file.
